


Abayo.

by visbs88



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, Ketsu Setting, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 04:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10181150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visbs88/pseuds/visbs88
Summary: “Abayo”, he had told him on the phone.And there had been so much, trapped inside that rude and brief word: surrender, the end of something they alone knew had begun.It had been the breaking of those kisses stolen in the gloom of the alleys, of the blood trickled down from their wounds and licked by their thirsty tongues. It had been the memory of the scorching hate that had bound their eyes and their souls, while not being able to accept being close to each other – but close they had indeed stayed. It had been letting go, forever, of those who had been two young boys looking for themselves and nothing more, at the end of the day.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fanfic a few nights after watching the last episode of Ketsu. I'm pretty sure it's nothing special, but it's still important to me. I'm also almost sure that the 99% of the fandom knows it, but, just to be clear, "Abayo" means "goodbye" (although in a quite rude way), and it is exactly what Shizuo tells Izaya on the phone in their famous exchange of words right before they go and try killing each other - which, if you ask me, had been absolutely beautiful and heartbreaking to watch, so I just hope I've been able to instill some of my emotions in this work. Sorry if my English is a bit broken, I'm Italian, so be patient please ^^' but don't hold back from writing any critique, I sincerely want to improve myself. Enjoy!

“ _Abayo_ ”, he had told him on the phone.

And there had been so much, trapped inside that rude and brief word: surrender, the end of something they alone knew had begun.

It had been the breaking of those kisses stolen in the gloom of the alleys, of the blood trickled down from their wounds and licked by their thirsty tongues. It had been the memory of the scorching hate that had bound their eyes and their souls, while not being able to accept being close to each other – but close they had indeed stayed. It had been letting go, forever, of those who had been two young boys looking for themselves and nothing more, at the end of the day.

The light coming from the television, the report of a murder, Izaya's tongue between his legs, his warm, embracing mouth; their trembling, naked chests, whispering “ _I hate you_ ” and holding tight onto each other right after, Izaya's cheeks reddening below his dark, shiny eyes while he was opening his legs and Shizuo, for an instant, was daring to hope that things could end up in a good way, with that flea that called him a monster. They had hugged and cried out softly the name of the other; it had been a shy, needy and simple pleasure, in the beginning. There had been pain as well, of course – for Orihara, bites and red marks on his neck when they had started to hate each other more, to love each other so much deeper. And that word,  _monster_ , always on his lips, playful and hurtful – Shizuo was bidding farewell also to that stupid tag, given him by a man who had pinned him without any reason, and who had scraped his skin with knives and nails, poison and honey.

And they had felt the distance between them growing at every mistake, at every dagger, at every hit, at every broken bone. They had made love in order to kill each other, afterward, and Izaya had started laughing instead of moaning – his uncertainties buried down in his loneliness, an abyss which Shizuo had never had any intention to sink in. Steel and concrete and liquids and smoke: this was all was left of them, as the war was bursting, as every horrible scheme plotted by that brilliant mind was finding its fulfillment.

But while Shizuo was collapsing, gas in his lungs and Izaya's empty smile above him, he understood that it just couldn't stop.

That  _Abayo_ was just bullshit, wasn't it – or maybe a wish.

They were one the burden of the other, and they just couldn't give up. They were life, they were throbs in the other's veins and scathing pleasure – they were the ones who, no matter how much hate they could feel, were always to end up looking at each other in the eye wondering how the city could have swallowed them so deeply, at such a tender age. Shizuo didn't know if it was destiny, or a curse. He didn't know what kept him chained to that voice, to those mocking lips, to that black, soft hair and to those clothes that the whole Ikebukuro knew so well – the clothes that probably many had taken off from Izaya Orihara's body, but he alone had teared, ripped, hated, craved, possessed. He remembered the culminations of their pleasure, that warm and slender and almost fragile physique, the times he had scattered kisses all over it and the times he had thrown anything he could against it just to destroy it; he knew that, since forever, Izaya used to bite his lips when he was about to strike as well as when he couldn't handle the pleasure any longer.

And he knew that they always, always, always would have come back to each other. And death didn't exist, didn't exist at all – not even when Izaya lit the match and dropped it.

They would have tried to kill each other throughout eternity, and they were never going to die. Because what would have been the meaning in it?

“ _Abayo..._ ”, he repeated to himself, seeing that little spark of light falling from the black sky and from the white hand that had caressed his hair so many times.

Knowing he was going to fight back hurt so much worse than the idea of dying. Knowing that they were unavoidably going to fail in tearing each other apart, in a way or another, because it always happened – and again, one day, they would have intertwined their bodies struggling and loving, forever, forever, forever.

He didn't want it. But it had to be that way.

And if someone truly had to die that night, that was not going to be Shizuo Heiwajima.

“ _Abayo... my ass_ ”.

And the air caught fire.

 


End file.
